Cambridge Weekend
by chasingriver
Summary: Greg has been working too hard, so Mycroft arranges for a quick getaway weekend to Cambridge, where he went to university. They attempt to find a few quiet moments on a punt in the River Cam.


Cambridge. A town filled with inspiring architecture, centuries of academic history, and hordes of suicidal cyclists. Or perhaps that should be 'homicidal cyclists'.

Mycroft pulled Greg back onto the pavement as another went whizzing by, in defiance of the traffic laws and without regard to anyone unfortunate enough to be in their path. Greg was used to London traffic: this form of pedestrian threat had a component of ninja-like stealth.

Mycroft had dragged him away from work, insisting on a weekend out of London. Once they'd boarded the train that Friday evening, he started to see the wisdom of the idea. As the train attendant came by with fresh coffee _(tea for Mycroft) _and dinner, he wondered how work could have seemed like a better way to spend the weekend. It was a good thing Mycroft was the one who booked their infrequent trips: Greg would have got the cheap tickets in the Standard coaches—the train cars filled with noisy teenagers that they'd passed on their way to their plush seats in the First Class car.

He'd never been to Cambridge, but Mycroft had gone there for university _(as if that was a surprise)_, and he promised to show Greg all the buildings and grassy courtyards that were open only to former students. Even if the city was mobbed by summer tourists, there were places they could go that would be serene and lovely.

They were staying in some ancient inn with leaded glass windows and a history hundreds of years long. It was 'updated' enough to have running water (and—surprisingly—wi-fi access) and yet retained its 'historical charm'. If you pretended the adjoining streets weren't packed with cars (and the ever-present bicycles), you could almost imagine you were in the Middle Ages. Minus the chamber pots. And with the addition of modern mattresses. Normally when Mycroft did their trip planning, they ended up in some posh boutique hotel; Greg had to admit this was a refreshing change of pace.

They spent an idyllic Saturday morning touring the historic buildings of Trinity and King's colleges; he recognised a few of them from when they'd watched _Maurice_ together. Their majestic stone construction gave them a permanence and soul that modern buildings lacked. Perhaps it was the generations of people who had passed through their halls. Mycroft took him to see the Wren Library and the 'Chapel'—which, as far as Greg was concerned, was a full-on cathedral. Then they went to the 'Formal Hall', which was a dining hall that looked like it was straight out of _Harry Potter._

Mycroft seemed a little nostalgic about it all.

"Do you miss it?"

Mycroft's forehead wrinkled and he thought about it for a moment before replying. "I miss parts of it. I enjoyed the studying, and being surrounded by the architecture—and even the freedom of getting away from my family—but most of the other students were insufferable prats who had no interest in learning."

"That last part describes any school in the country."

"Yes. Well. I'd hoped it wouldn't apply here, but it did. I might have been one of the few that didn't want to get falling-down drunk every weekend."

Greg smiled. "And I love that about you," he said, reaching over and giving Mycroft's hand a quick squeeze. "Want to get some food in the town? All this culture is making me hungry."

After a relaxing lunch, Mycroft suggested they take a punting trip on the River Cam. The narrow, slow-moving waterway was the perfect spot for taking shallow, flat-bottomed boats—punts—for a leisurely float. It was a time-honoured tradition amongst Cambridge students, and if the huge groups of people clustered around the "Hire a punt for a relaxing afternoon!" signs were any indication, a source of interest for a lot of tourists as well.

Taking the short bridge across the river—which was perhaps ten metres across—they looked down to see a veritable traffic jam of the long, narrow boats, stuck at all angles in the small channel.

Tourists barked orders to their frustrated family members as they tried to navigate the waterway.

"No, push that way! We're going to hit—"

The 'thunk' of colliding wooden boats echoed in the air.

"No, not _that_ way, the other way!"

"We can't go that way unless you want to carry it up the riverbank."

"I told you this was a bad idea, Phyllis."

"Can't we just get an ice cream, Mum?"

"There: I see a spot. Move over there."

"I _can't_ move, those boats are in the way."

"Mum, I don't want to do this. I have to have a wee."

"Well you should have done that before we started. We're going to do this and you're _going_ to enjoy it."

"Oh, God, the pole's stuck! I can't hang onto it!"

And, inevitably:

_Splash._

Greg looked at Mycroft, doubtfully. "I thought this was supposed to be relaxing?"

Mycroft chuckled. "I thought so, too. Come on, I have a better idea."

"_Not_ punting, perhaps?"

"If you don't want to, we don't have to."

"No, no, it's fine. I just don't want to get involved in _this_," he said, pointing to the heaving mass of simmering frustration underneath the bridge.

"Understandable, but they usually keep a few punts tied up at Trinity for students. I'm sure if I asked nicely, they'd let us take one of those out. Besides, it's far enough down the river to be away from this nightmare."

"Yeah, okay. Can you promise we won't fall in?"

"I can't _promise_ anything, Gregory, but I'll do the punting, if that's your question," he said, smiling. "As long as you don't stand up, we should be fine."

They got permission to take one of them out. It wasn't as new and polished as the boats for hire, but it had comfortable cushions and seemed solid enough. Mycroft held it against the bank as Greg stepped into it. It wobbled a little, but when he settled back onto the seat it evened out. Mycroft followed him into the boat, and then took his shoes and socks off, exposing his pale feet to the warm summer sun. There was something undeniably sexy about Mycroft's creamy skin set off against his pale linen trousers. Greg wanted to trace the bones of his ankle with his fingers and run his hand—

"What?" Mycroft interrupted his thoughts. He'd caught him looking.

"Nothing," Greg replied, a little too quickly.

"It's obviously _something_. If my feet are offensive, I can put my shoes back on—I'll just have better traction without them."

"Oh God, no—it's not that," Greg said, a little embarrassed. "They're very _nice_ feet. You should go barefoot more often."

"Oh, really?" The corners of his mouth twitched up into a smile. "I didn't know you had a thing for feet."

"I don't. Well, I might—I'd just never really noticed before. Yours look quite sexy with the rest of you all dressed up like that."

"I'll keep that in mind," Mycroft said with a chuckle. "Ready?"

"Yep."

Mycroft pushed off from the shore with the quant—the four metre long pole he'd use to propel them down the river. He handled it with graceful ease. Greg was pretty sure _he_ would have taken off Mycroft's head, moving it around like that. Once they were in the middle of the channel, Mycroft stood on the small platform at the back of the boat. He pushed the pole in at an angle against the gravelly bottom of the river, then braced against it to move the boat forward. After 'walking up' the pole with his hands as it trailed out behind them, he'd lift it out of the water and repeat the process. They were able to move at a nice, leisurely pace—passing some of the other boats, but not in any particular hurry to get somewhere. Most of the boaters in the area were families on guided tours—those who'd made the sensible choice to avoid the traffic jams at the other end of the river and leave the hard work to someone who knew what they were doing.

"So, did you do this when you used to go to school here?"

"Mm. Quite a bit. A rite of passage, really: falling off a punt, fully clothed. The punting club required it."

"As opposed to 'partially clothed'?" Greg asked, curiously.

"Ah," said Mycroft with a grin, "that was an entirely different rite of passage."

"The things I missed out on by not going to university," Greg said with sarcasm. "Although, I would have paid to see the second one."

Mycroft chuckled.

"So you spent lazy afternoons punting and discussing Plato's _Symposium_?" Greg asked, referring to the scene in _Maurice_ that they were currently replicating almost shot for shot.

"You make it sound so boring. Sometimes we'd bring a picnic."

"Too bad we already had lunch."

Mycroft smiled and steered the punt towards a large weeping willow that stretched out far across the water, almost to the centre of the river. "It's a little warm. It might be nice to sit in the shade for a while."

Once they'd glided beneath its outer branches, they found themselves in a sun-dappled, leafy hideaway—the hanging branches forming a delicate bower around them, shielding them from the rest of the boaters.

"I gather this isn't on the usual tour," Greg said.

"Most tourists try and avoid the trees, and they don't often get this far along the river," Mycroft said, as he pushed the pole into the water, using it to wedge the boat against the shore. Then he stepped down into the boat and made his way over to the two-person seat Greg occupied.

"Hello, gorgeous," Greg said, taking Mycroft's hand to steady him as he sat down.

"How do you like the tour so far?" Mycroft asked, moving his hand to Greg's thigh.

"I didn't realise it would be this… thorough," he replied. "They didn't put this on the brochure."

"Oh, I can assure you, Gregory, you'll receive my most _personal_ attention," he said, leaning in and kissing him. When he pulled away, he said, "The real question is: How much personal attention would you _like, _out here in the open, where anyone can catch us?" He started tracing circles with his fingertips on the inside of Greg's thigh.

Greg took a deep breath. "Is this a trick question?"

"Do you think I'd joke about something like this?" Mycroft said. He nearly managed to hold a straight face, but a smile crept through.

"I'd love to have you ravage me right here," Greg said provocatively, then added, "but if I'm being completely honest, I'm only brave enough for some heavy snogging and a bit of feeling each other up. Working for the Met won't get me out of a public indecency charge in Cambridge. I promise I'll make it up to you with lots of sex when we get back to the hotel."

"I have a different proposal," Mycroft said. "After we finish here, I'll show you my old room at the college. I'm sure you'll find it _fascinating._" Then, with his voice even lower and sexier than usual, he added, "—and closer than the hotel."

Greg beamed. It sounded fantastic—the chance to be naughty schoolboys again, sharing some deliciously filthy moments in Mycroft's old room while trying not to get caught. "That sounds almost as dangerous as trying something here," he said. It was meant to be cautionary, but it came out more like a compliment.

"Oh, it's certainly risky. Are you sure it's not too much?" Mycroft teased.

"Well, what's life without a little excitement?" he said, leaning in to kiss Mycroft just as a boat passed by, a few metres away from them.

Mycroft murmured his agreement and pulled him closer. "My thoughts exactly."

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**Author's Note:** On my Archive of Our Own site, there is a second chapter to this story which contains pictures: one with the scene I reference in _Maurice_ and one of the punt traffic jam. This site doesn't allow me to include pictures, links to them, or links to the story on AO3. This is part of the reason I prefer people read my stories over there. If you want to check it out, my username on Archive of Our Own is chasingriver.

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If you want to find me on tumblr, my username is chasingriversong.


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